


from the breach to the tracks

by Iambic



Series: the forth and back [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But Family Make You Live Through Them, Friends Don't Let Friends Make Bad Decisions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>All things change. The bad and the good come and go, the only constant being the beginning that follows the end. The sea wears down the rock into new shapes before it disintegrates to sand. The world shifts and then it settles. The things that seemed so important slowly lose their relevance.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>When the sacrifices they made stop feeling worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from the breach to the tracks

**Author's Note:**

> I _told_ you there'd be a sequel.

All things change. The bad and the good come and go, the only constant being the beginning that follows the end. The sea wears down the rock into new shapes before it disintegrates to sand. The world shifts and then it settles. The things that seemed so important slowly lose their relevance.

That’s just how it goes.

The Chargers, after routing out an infestation of wyverns outside a large fishing and agriculture town, have taken over the ground floor of the inn to get drunk and sing lewd songs and cheat really badly at cards. Normally the Bull would be in there holding court. And he will, later. But for now he’s leaning against the side door in the cool relief of the evening fog, watching his boys celebrate. He unexpectedly keeps getting older. Sometimes all he wants is to sit back and rest for a while.

It’s not exactly new to him, but it’s not like the desperate exhaustion in Seheron. It’s more like those rare days in Skyhold, catching his breath and waiting for the Inquisitor to put him to work again. Sitting up on the wall with Vivienne, lounging around with the boys, shooting the shit with the Inquisitor, and all those lazy afternoons sprawled out in bed—

The Bull doesn’t refuse to think of Dorian, but he does try to contain himself, because there’s nostalgia and then there’s wallowing in it. Scratch around the scab, but don’t rip it off. Don’t hoard the letters. Don’t tell the same stories over and over again. Don’t focus on tall men with dark skin and wicked smiles. Eventually it will just be another scar.

Against his back, the rough grain of the door’s frame. In his hand, the thick paper in a vellum envelope against the damp. The messenger who’d delivered it seemed hardier than most, only raising her eyebrows upon finding the Bull earlier in the day. Express delivery from Val Royeaux, she’d told him, then hopped back up on her horse and galloped away.

Val Royeaux. It would have been easier if she hadn’t said anything, because only one person uses that seal on his letters, and it’s been a long time since he’s come south. And, most likely, a longer time until the next. If there even is a next time.

Contain yourself. Don’t let yourself hope. Don’t drag the Chargers out of the inn to haul off to Val Royeaux. Leave the past in the past.

He opens the letter. The rushed scribble, dotted with ink splotches where the quill hesitated, confirms the writer’s identity. Even after all this time the Bull can picture him, white robes and dark leather, tapping the feather of his quill against his lower lip and catching it in his mustache. Shivering against the marine layer of a coastal city such as Val Royeaux. Complaining about it to whoever happens to be around to hear. At that one café near the marketplace, maybe, glass of wine to the right of his paper, sipping occasionally and frowning.

_7 Bloomingtide, 9:50 Dragon_

_Very rapid developments in Minrathous. Archon assassinated – astonishingly, not our work – and R. D. in very good position to take the throne. M. T. will serve as his advisor; former apprentice O. E. to take her place in Magisterium. Reinstated very brief contact with H. P., who with some convincing formalized L. previously H.’s place as heir. Fortunate that A. T. and V. H. both found arrangement highly suitable. L. will be taking P. magisterial seat upon death or retirement of H., and her daughter will take the P. name after her._

_Movements in Vyrantium and Qarinus continue to build traction, C. competent as ever. Resistance in Minrathous, open violence toward the south and southeast – no doubt spurred by the shipping trade. Highways maintained, but a sizeable F./L. population declines use. Perhaps they are a large factor in C.’s growing success. Accusations of collaborations by certain Magisters, but M.’s name is clear. As well you know, neither M. nor R. have any contact with C._

_Bull—_

He has to look away.

Not once since the letters started coming has Dorian ever called the Bull by name. The letters never quite managed to leave off his personality – Dorian had always been long-winded and overly eloquent – but neither had they delved into dangerous territory. Never a salutation, never a signature beyond the customary D. that possibly wouldn’t be concluding this particular missive after all.

They’d agreed on it: to carry on apart, neither of them could write anything close to personal. No well-wishes, no affection, no asking advice or support and no offering of either. No confessions. No names.

_Bull. This is not a relevant update, but I will be staying with Vivienne in Val Royeaux for a month’s time, on business. I’m aware this is a phenomenally bad idea, but I want to see you again. I don’t expect you to indulge me. But because I’m not a particularly good man, I nonetheless ask that you do._

_Yours, at least in the past tense,_

_Dorian_

The Bull folds the letter up again, slides it back into the vellum. He could go back inside, feed it to the fire, get drunk enough to put it out of his head. The rational side of himself knows he should. But just the thought has him clutching the envelope and its contents to leave permanent creases.

Shit, and Dorian had even said it, how he couldn’t keep it impersonal, and the Bull had known even then that the letters would be a bad idea. He should have controlled himself and never have asked at all. He should have relented when Dorian expressed concern. He wouldn’t be here now, caught between inside and out with a letter he’s both desperately wanted to receive and dreaded reading.

To the right of him the fog keeps on swallowing the town. It had been clear and bright that morning, when one of them had left and the other had stayed. Winter, not late summer. But they’d made their decisions long before laying out the consequences.

When the Bull looks back into the inn, Krem’s watching him, brows furrowed. That’s the cue for him to put down the old regrets and come back inside if he doesn’t want an interrogation. And he doesn’t, really. But he probably needs one. He nods, so Krem puts down his mug and stands up, clasping young Conrad’s shoulder briefly on his way to the door.

“Something happen, chief?”

The Bull rubs at the scars running down his right cheek. “Nah. Just got a letter from Dorian.”

By now, even Krem has delivered all his lectures on the subject of how terrible an idea this correspondence is. He only sighs and places a hand on the Bull’s blind-side arm. “He all right?”

“Doesn’t say if he’s not,” the Bull says, knocking against it and letting it stay. “He’s, uh, going to be in Val Royeaux. Not sure how long.”

Krem takes a breath—whether to talk or just in response it’s hard to say, but the Bull doesn’t take any chances. “I know. It’s a shitty idea.” The paper crackles, and the Bull relaxes his hands before he can totally destroy the letter, another bad idea. Crumpling it up and throwing it away would still be the best way to deal with it.

“You know I’d never question your judgement,” says Krem, the unrepentant liar, “but I think you should go.”

A beat passes, then another. The Bull blinks, but Krem’s expression doesn’t change. “Coulda sworn you just said that going to meet with Dorian is a good idea.”

“Yeah, colour me surprised, too.” Krem shrugs, looks back to the fireplace and the Chargers around it, then back at the Bull. There are a few more lines on his face these days. Finally starting to show his age. Could be it’s a ‘Vint thing; Dorian always looked younger than his thirty-odd years. He must have changed too, up in Tevinter. Maybe he’ll have changed enough that if the Bull does go to see him, he’ll be able to lay the ghost of Dorian from the Inquisition years to rest.

Something has softened in Krem’s face, when the Bull focuses back on him. “It doesn’t look much like time and distance are doing much for you,” he’s saying. “Best case, you get it figured out. Worst case, nothing changes, and we find you some wyverns to kill to take your mind off it.”

“Got me all figured out, don’t you?” Bull asks.

Krem laughs and tugs him back inside. “Someone has to take care of your ugly mug.”

-

The fog still hangs heavy in the air when the Chargers leave the next morning, muffling their horses’ steps and the jingling of tack and armour. The letter, carefully folded back into its vellum, the Bull keeps tucked into his belt. If it chafes his stomach he can probably live; it’s not such a long ride to Val Royeaux.


End file.
